In Israel, during the summer they have this thing called “Leilot Levanim”. It translates into “White Nights” and happens every Thursday night, throughout the whole country. The buses run until 3AM, the trains go until past midnight and every business stays up until about 5AM. There are street festivals and carnivals, the roads are full of traffic and bands play on the street for tips and your entertainment.
It’s fricking awesome.
That said, we were in Englewood and it was a balmy Thursday evening in September—the evening of my annual “Back to School Night”. El Madre and I had just finished up with my piano interview (apparently a year of begging makes parents realize you’re actually serious about something) and were looking for a place we could have a quick and tasty meal.
Now, the majority of Englewood’s restaurants are either typical Jewish/Israeli cuisine, Chinese food, Mexican Tapas Bars, or delis and takeout. We passed by several Israeli cuisine-type restaurants before finding one that looked easy and tasty. We decided to sit outside and were enjoying our lemonades and pita when we heard music.
Live music?
Nearby?
On the street?
My traitor of a heart started beating faster in anticipation as I looked across the street. Leilot Levanim in Englewood?! It was too good to be true.
So we ate our meal, enjoying the musical stylings of some random, unkown yet kickass jazz-rock-blues band. At one point El Madre looked at me curiously as I sang/hummed some phrases that I knew, but couldn’t put my finger on (one turned out to be The Meters' Cissy Strut;I’ve forgotten the others by now).
It was, in essence, lovely.
After checking the time, we packed our stuff up and jumped into our dumpy Ford (the only car we had left since our accident). However, the route to get back home from Englewood put us on the street driving right next to (and past) the band. El Madre and I were really happy and excited from the music and so I wanted to show them our appreciation.
While we were driving by them, I flashed them a brilliant grin and a thumb’s up.
The guy closest to the front, the sax player, smiled back, then put both hands over his heart.
Our own, personal close encounter with Frunobulax. Unfortunately, no rhinestone collars…
**BEWARE! This selection includes crazy antics, teenage behavior, Valley-type women, the NJ Parkway and a distant relative of Frunobulax. Consider yourself warned.**
Despite the fact that the ‘rents knew Irene would be just like any other storm we’ve ever been hit with (yes, Chris Christie, we’re on to you…), they still wanted to get on the road early and be home before 1PM.
On Friday morning, August 26th, we woke up to brilliant sunshine. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
Just my luck?
Anyway, we hopped in the car, stopped for coffee and were on the Parkway by 10AM. We were cruising, listening to tunes from my Zune and trying to enjoy the ride back, despite the bouts of traffic.
We were about halfway home when suddenly, El Padre called my name from the front of the car, his voice amused and sing-songy. “Carmeeel…”
“What?” I bit out, irritated. I mean, I was reading. Who in their right mind would interrupt me while I was finally getting to the good stuff?
“Look at what they have in the backseat.”
“What?”
“A poodle.”
I immediately bolted upright while slamming my book closed and staring out the window opposite mine. Sure enough, there was a white sedan (Florida license plates, might I add?)with a curly, disco-type poodle stretching in the back. An old-ish guy was driving (like a/an (fill in the blank. I refuse to generate negative karma)) and his wife was sitting beside him. The windows were totally open in the back and half-open in the front.
At that precise moment, Dirty Love (from Return of the Son of…) came on, unplanned.
It was now or never.
I scooted over to the other seat in the back, asked El Padre to get a little closer (we had fallen a bit behind) and waited for exactly the right moment.
My timing was exact. I had the window open and screamed/sang the lyrics just at the right moment:
“THE POODLE BITES! THE POODLE CHEWS IT! THE POODLE BITES! THE POODLE CHEWS IT!”
The woman sitting in the passenger seat, a female in her 50s with fake blond hair (seemingly, a Val) looked over, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape and totally freaked out—and not in the awesome Zappa way. She pointed at me (I was still screaming and singing along), nudged her husband, and then shut all their windows, eyes straight ahead. The sedan sped up ahead of us.
Meanwhile, the three of us were dying of laughter. El Padre was cracking up, I was holding on to my jeans and wiping tears from my face and El Madre couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen.
Despite the fact that I feared for my life (people generally drive with their eyes open, not half-closed in hysterical laughter), I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.
Well…Actually, no. We’re not. Because we don’t gamble. I mean, the Mega-Millions doesn’t count. Psh.
Tales from Atlantic City. Enjoy.
My dad’s worked at a bunch of different places. Be it ABC, NBC or Grey Advertising…Let’s just say he likes to mix it up.
Yeah. That sounds good.
Anyway, he’s been all over the place, so he’s got a fair amount of contacts in all different fields. One such ‘contact’ turned out to be a great friend.
A great friend that travels to Atlantic City very often and offered us her comp for a few days, that is.
Before I go any further, I need to set some things straight:
A. We hate casinos. Aside from the Mega Millions, gambling isn’t our thing. El Padre’s been to Vegas. He never wants to go back.
B. We love the beach. Like, we LOVE it. I’m willing to bet money we’re the only people you know who willingly go to the beach in the winter.
C. Going to Israel in the summer does not count as vacation. Just because you guys hear about the fun things doesn’t mean it’s all good.
That said, when The Father Figure offered us a 3-day excursion to Atlantic City complete with a practically-free room, awesome view and ‘family bonding time’ (like it’s not enough to trap me indoors all weekend. Now we have to talk to each other?) El Madre and I said yes almost immediately. After some cajoling, we convinced The Broski to come along. Naturally, he backed out at the last minute, claiming he had a job and wanted to make some cash before going back to college.
So we drove the 2 ½ hours down the shore to Atlantic City, arriving at about quarter to five. El Padre’s friend had gotten us a kickass room on the 29th floor and once everything was set up and our important items secured in the safe (which took a while), we ventured down the boardwalk for some dinner. I’d never been there before, and the boardwalk blew me away. The shops, the people (the ones that weren’t staring at me with their hair going every which way) and the sea all combined to make an enjoyable, easygoing atmosphere…
…That and the awesomesauce musical merchandise store on the way which just so happened to display a Zappa t-shirt in their window. I mean, that could’ve had something to do with it.
El Padre, noticing my admiration, immediately marched inside to find out how much it was and if he could get a deal (He’s a Jew. What do you expect?) while I looked on mortified. Thank you, Dad, for not even asking me if wanted it. I appreciate that.
Ahem. Anyway, he came out a couple of minutes later, claiming they were a bit overpriced and couldn’t get a deal. He started to say something else, but I cut him off, saying, “Dad. It’s okay. I’m glad. I’d rather buy it at a concert, or from Barfko-Swill. That way I’m at least putting the money to good use, y’know?”
El Padre was puzzled. “Barfko-Swill?”
“It’s the website that sells Zappa merchandise.”
“Oh.”
We kept walking until we were forced to decide: walk back and choose from a place we’d already seen, or try the Hard Rock Café?
I’d never been to a Hard Rock. That settled it.
Walking in, I was instantly taken in by the music and ‘artifacts’ they had displayed everywhere. Posters, guitars, drumsticks, photos, David Lee Roth’s pants…
In other words, heaven.
I knew that they probably had the same things at the Times Square Hard Rock, but I didn’t care. El Padre and I walked around the restaurant like the clichéd idiotic tourists you see at Safaris while The Mother watched on with an amused smile, a mischievous glint in her eye.
Okay, so I was basically taking pictures of everything. So what?
Eventually, we wandered back to our table. The food was surprisingly tasty and way more than we could eat. Dinner was excellent.
Once we were done, we wandered back up the way we had come and generally enjoyed the view, the crowds of odd-looking people and the smell of fried, sweet things in the air. On the way back, we passed by the music shop and the owner, who my father had spoken to earlier, was standing outside of it. When he caught sight of El Padre he started telling him about the fact that his shirts are real, not rip-offs and they have a special tag and so on and so forth.
Eventually, he asked if we were going to buy one. When The Father replied no, he asked why. “Because,” I told him. “Your prices are obscene, you’re being obnoxious and I’d rather get one at a concert.”
“Yeah. Those are fake.”
I gave him the dirtiest look ever and asked in a deadly monotone, “Sir, do you really think Dweezil Zappa, Frank’s own son and leader of Zappa Plays Zappa, would be selling ‘fake’ (yes, I did the air-quotations) t-shirts at his band’s concerts? The purpose of which is to maintain Frank’s legacy? Really?”
Yup. He had nothing to say to that. Carmel-1. Music Man-0!
After celebrating my victory, we made plans to get up uber-early and spend the whole day on the sand.
The Padre and I got up early. El Madre chose the ‘snooze button’ option.
After walking nearly the entire length of the boardwalk, we finally found a Starbucks. We enjoyed the sunshine, each other’s company and returned to our room with a coffee for El Madre. While waiting for The Mother to wake up and get ready, etcetera, etcetera, The Father and I sprawled in the large, comfy chairs in front of the large window and took in the sight: the lovely, teal Atlantic, worn, winding boardwalk...
It was at that moment that I noticed the newspaper, open to this page (see image below), lying on the table in front of the window:
“Wow. Are you serious?” I asked The Padre.
“Yeah, I read it. It’s not exactly about him, but he’s mentioned,” he replied nonchalantly.
I stared at it in openmouthed shock. Right then, El Madre stumbled out of bed, saw what I was looking at and chuckled. “Hey, Carmel,” She called from across the room. “I think that stuff just follows you.”
Gee, thank you, Mom.
It’s fun and totally awesome, having this type of stuff follow you.
It’s also a little bit freaky.
Anyway, the rest of the trip was fun, if slightly uneventful. We never really got to go to the beach, because the day turned gray, icky and wet. Friday morning was blindingly sunny and hot, but we left at about noon, because the ‘rents were worried about getting caught by Irene (the supposedly deadly hurricane that brought prissy Upper East-Siders to their knees, their Prada handbags soaked through and through… NO, BECAUSE WE’VE NEVER HAD A NOR’EASTER BEFORE...)
All in all? Atlantic City wasn’t so bad. Now if we could just get rid of the gambling, the freaky guys and the Elvis revival shows…
An interesting fact from an awesome biography. Not for the faint of heart. Use as directed. =D
Listen up, ladies and germs! I have 3 names for you:
1. Frank Zappa/Zappa Plays Zappa
2. LED ZEPPELIN!
3. Yes
Obviously, I’m on here for #1. That’s a given. But I know some of you are iffy with Jimmy Page and Robert Plant and the gang, so let me set you straight—I am a geek. I read like crazy, I love music and I love Led Zeppelin. Even if you don’t happen to share that same wondrous emotion *cough, cough*, be nice to them. Or let’s just say you might end up on the wrong side of that pepper spray. Capiche?
That said, this summer I read a biography. I don’t usually bother with them; I have to read plenty of them for school and besides that, they usually bore me. I don’t usually care for the nitty-gritty details of people who only half-interest me. I mean, okay, so George Washington Carver found over 100 uses for peanuts. Do we actually use any of them?
I rest my case.
Regardless, this summer I was determined. I had When Giants Walked The Earth since April and had only been waiting for the perfect moment to read it.
A month in Israel with no outside distractions. Perfect, right?
It was hard to get into it at first, but once I passed the 70-mark—whoa, mama. I was reading so fast, the words began to blur. Learning about the creation of the band, the dynamics between everyone, the beast of a man that was Peter Grant and the slightly frightening groupie-scene of the 70s—it was enlightening. Moreover, it was enjoyable. I read that book everywhere (it’s the only one I own that has sand inside of it, if that means anything to you).
Now, I have this sorta…thing. It’s not ESP. It’s not normal, either. I refuse to label it. Nonetheless, the whole time I was reading it, I knew that Frank would be mentioned somewhere. I just knew it.
Ladies and germs, I was not disappointed.
The first mention was innocent enough—something about Miss Pamela (she had a history with Jimmy) and the GTO’s who “became famous through the patronage of Frank Zappa”.
The second was not innocent. By any means.
As I read the passage in question, my eyes widened to the size of dinner plates and my jaw dropped.
Oh, yes. I was shocked.
I mean, honestly. How else are you supposed to react when you find out that the basis of the Fillmore album is actually real? And the vile (and pernicious) acts they actually inflicted upon a girl at the Edgewater Inn (which actually existed)?
Really?
In any case, I know you guys probably have no idea which book I’m talking about. And are uber-curious about it now. So let’s put it in PG13 terms, shall we? :
John Bonham and Richard Cole (Ricardo—tour manager, booze buddy, groupie connoisseur) were drinking heavily and decided they were going to fish off the balconies while staying at the Edgewater Inn. By 4AM, having not caught anything whatsoever, Bonzo poured some champagne on his bait and they immediately caught a red snapper. They continued to catch red snappers and mud sharks (I thought a mud shark was joke, but noo—they’re real too) into the morning.
The next day, the bands (Led Zeppelin had been the opening acts for headliners, Vanilla Fudge, so they were all in the same hotel) were entertaining a bunch of groupies in one of their rooms. One girl unknowingly mentioned something and from there…No further comments!
In hindsight, it was sorta heartbreaking to know that one of my favorite bands was so... *shudders* For those of you curious enough, see pages 165-166 of Led Zeppelin: When Giants Walked The Earth by Mick Wall.
Euch. Almost as appalling as finding out that L. Ron Hubbard (not Hoover) was real (albeit not a founder of appliantology).
I got 70 minutes of live ZPZ…That should be enough to hold me over for the year…Right?...
RIGHT?!...?
Part 2 of Night 2 of The Awesome ZPZ Beacon Experience.
Leaning against the wall next to the box office, occasionally dipping a cookie in The Mother’s coffee or taking a sip from it, I observed the scene going on with unease.
There was a middle-aged man to my left side, standing with a bicycle between his legs. He had a fanny pack tied across his chest and was wearing a wizard’s hat, yelling, “Tickets! Need a ticket?”
Oh, yes. He was a scalper. Quite an obvious one, in fact.
And yet…There was a guy, guarding the entrance into the Beacon. A Beacon-Guard, if you will. Why wasn’t he stopping Wizard Dude?
Then, there was an old man, definitely in his mid-60s, walking around, wearing overlarge glasses and holding an umbrella, asking people if they had a spare ticket. I felt didn’t feel too bad for him; a twinge of remorse was all he got from me.
The young man sitting cross-legged on the pavement across from me, however…Him, I felt bad for. A dull (and slightly melancholic) expression on his face and a cigarette between his lips, he held up a small cardboard sign that read:
WWFD?
It then went on to explain that he had no money for a ticket and that he’s ‘got stinkfoot’.
I felt bad for him. I mean, I felt really bad for him. After all, it was basically a year ago that I was in his shoes…Plus or minus a couple of factors. I was very close to asking The Mother (who was also empathetic) for some cash, so we could give it to him. But then she finished her coffee and it was time to go inside. I stashed my remaining cookie inside a pocket so the guys who raid your bag at the front wouldn’t find it.
Inside, we burned some more time and tried not to pay attention to the freaky-looking guys hanging around. As soon as they opened the doors, we dashed inside and got to our seats. Really, for a teenage girl and a woman alone…a rough crowd is fairly intimidating (despite the fact that I own pepper-spray and have good aim).
We agreed that we weren’t coming back without a male member of the household.
Soon enough, the show began. And I was in heaven.
I bopped and swung my head from side to side, singing along when there were lyrics, occasionally humming when there weren’t. I tapped my feet in my Converse to the beat and was totally, utterly into it. This would, after all, be my fix for the year.
When Dweezil asked the audience if anyone had been there the night before, El Madre and I shot up, screaming. And when Ben asked people to dance during ‘Dancin’ Fool’, I got up and rocked from side to side. Why not? I figured. You only live once.
The cool thing to me about this particular 2-night stint was that I got to hear several of my favorite songs. ‘Don’t You Ever Wash That Thing?’, ‘Big Swifty’ and ‘Nanook Rubs It’ especially, though there were others that I greatly enjoyed. The even better thing was that I got a new song to add to my favorites: ‘Heavy Duty Judy’. But the absolute, most awesome thing was that ZPZ managed to make songs I only sorta liked (or didn’t like at all) come alive for me.
Really. That is cool.
In any case, the show ended too soon for my taste, but that was expected. And in all honesty, I was glad to have seen them at all.
Glancing over at El Madre, I thought distantly (and in light over recent events that you guys may or may not find out about), If we move I’m not giving this up. No matter where we go, she’s going to have to help me see them whenever possible.
Later on, I brought this up to The Mother. She didn’t even bat an eyelash and quickly agreed.
Ahh…The joys of having a mother who’s as wild and crazy as you are…
We waited during the ‘intermission’ and El Madre asked me why Sir Ponty hadn’t joined ZPZ on King Kong (which she fell in love with this summer thanks to moi), then demanded why they hadn’t performed King Kong at all. I just looked at her, grinned and said, “Y’know, Mom, if you wanna see them play King Kong, you’ve just gotta come to another show and hope. And probably request it on the site.”
She just smiled.
Eventually, the set change was complete and Return to Forever came onstage. We lasted about fifteen minutes (two or three songs) before we exchanged a look and got up to leave. I felt bad, but…We were jet-lagged, tired and weren’t feeling too hot. The music was…Well, too loud (in hindsight, it probably just sounded too loud to us, jet-lagged as we were).
We left (buying a set of ZPZ pins on the way out which you CANNOT FIND ON AMAZON), but, of course, couldn’t actually leave yet since we had promised El Padre we’d buy bagels for Sunday morning.
So back to Fairway it was…
And soon enough, we were on the West Side Highway, driving home, loaded up with music and breakfast food.
Noticing that El Madre’s eyes seemed pretty heavy, I started explain my theory on what would’ve happened had this been the 70s (to keep her awake). “So you see, Mom, ZPZ would get off stage and then everyone would see their crew come on and start dismantling and moving everything. And what would happen is that everyone would literally get to their feet and demand that ZPZ come back on stage and they’d steal the show. Like Taste did at that “memorable performance” at MSG, on that TV show we saw in Israel. And that’s what’s wrong with this society: they have none of that 70s spirit.”
Oh, yeah. Just a little bit jet-lagged? Only a tad?
Mwuahahahahahahahaaaaa. That caught your attention, didn't it?
Okay, picture this if you can:
Three unreleased recordings of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young fighting in the dressing room of the Fillmore East?
No, actually. (Imagine yourself a teenager again.) You're operating on 5 hours of sleep, because last night was your official graduation and you, your family and family-friend celebrated into the wee hours. You got up early to assemble and deliver gifts for all (yes, all) of your teachers. It's the last day of school, so naturally everyone's freaking out, and not in the kickass Zappa-fashion which we've come to love and accept. See, not only have you already been hug-raped by someone you barely know (although apparently well enough, because you know he irritates you), but people have been running up to you and crying on your shoulder, screaming that it's over. Like this isn't the day you've been waiting for since the first day of school.
Poor reader, you have even suffered through SpongeBob SquarePants (Lucifer, himself!) not in the already grating English, but—gag me with a spoon—Spanish.
But oh. What's this?
You finally have your yearbook. And while you may not care for the yearbook itself, you're glad you have something you can look at to take your mind off crabby patties (cue spine-wracking shudder).
As I sat in the darkened classroom, using my kickass superpowers to block anything having to do with SpongeBob from entering my mind, I flipped through the pages looking for one of my seemingly nonexistent photos. By the time I got to the last pages, I was actually a bit chagrined. What did I have in there, five lousy photos? It doesn't matter anyway, I thought to myself. You didn't even really enjoy this schoolyear. Why would you wanna remember something that wasn't enjoyable?
I scanned over page 82 for something pertaining to me or my friends, I actually skipped right over a photo, before whipping my head back so fast to look at it, I actually got a bit dizzy. I felt a grin tug at the corner of my lips. The stars dancing around in front of my eyes had nothing to do with dizziness.
Oh, yes.
There was a photo of myself on page 82...
...Dressed as Monsieur Frank.
I know what you're thinking. What? Carmel, what are you talking about? You would've told us if you ever attempted drag...Right?
Nope. Not in the name of Halloween, at least.
As I reminisced about the most recent and totally awesome Halloween (also the only time I ever went trick-or-treating), I turned around to face a good friend who shall not be named and showed her page 82.
“Notice anything out of place?” I asked nonchalantly.
She looked around the page until she fixated on the photo. Her eyes widened slightly and her eyebrows lowered in suspicion. She pointed to it, asking, “Uh, Carmel...? Is that...? That wouldn't happen to be...?” She finally looked up from the page and saw my broad, mischevious grin and the devious glint in my eye.
She sighed, smiled and shook her head in mock disapprovement. “Only you, Carmel. Only you...”
That's right, biznitches. Only me.
Only I, the spunky, red-Converse-wearing teenager would be righteous enough to throw my anniversary in your face! That's right, ladies and germs—I've been feeding you blogs for a year, today.
What's that? You're sorry, you were busy, tied up in a conference-call, attempting to hook a client and congratulating me totally slipped your mind so please forgive you, you'll never do anything like that ever again?
It's okay. I know you forgot.
Then again...
...There is a reason you're not getting a slice of cake. =D
I hate school. I hate it. I despise it, I loathe it, and if I could, I would bomb most elementary, middle and high schools not only in the US but in the world. Just getting it out there.
That said, I had a pretty good academic year. Not only did I make High Honor Roll (and Honor Roll for 2 years running, thank you very much), but my MANDATORY (ahem, ahem) graduation speech made it into the 'finals', which only 8 people out of the entire 8th grade (259 kids) made it into. I'm not gonna lie; I was fairly proud of myself. That's despite the fact that I didn't win (and who cares anyway?).
Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado—
PARTY LIKE A ROCK STAR!
Life is often compared to many objects and concepts. I’m quite sure it’s all been done. With that in mind, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to steal a few minutes of your time and connect this trying period in our life to something we can all relate to—music.
Symphonies, songs, madrigals—they all have the same composition: instruments and notes, time signatures; the mechanics of music. Let the chaotic song Good Times Bad Times by Led Zeppelin stand for our life and the musical instruments used to represent different aspects that create our lives. The heavy bass lines can represent the difficulties we faced, the thumping drums the decisions we made, the sweet guitar for our tumultuous feelings throughout the whole affair and the melodic vocals the words we used to actually express ourselves. Taking the song title at face value, our experience at the Middle School was just that: a mix of wonderful moments and heartrending memories.
Yet it’s important to remember that these years were vital in sculpting our characters and also instilling many useful qualities, such as discipline, responsibility, and kindness—traits all needed to have a successful music career as well as become a decent human being, something we’re now guaranteed to become. Yes, these past two years jamming have been difficult, but fellow classmates, I come bearing good news: we’re on the home stretch. The song’s almost done; we just need lyrics now.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the two years we spent at ***MS were not for nothing. We have skills now. We can play walking bass lines, jam when we feel like it, rip on the guitar with a passion reminiscent of Hendrix, and bash those drums without getting blisters on our fingers. Or, to put it more coherently, we now have certain skills that will allow us to further our academic careers and propel us through life with haste. Being the experienced eighth graders we are, we can find y-intercepts like that, write amazing essays, build shelves in Shop, sew backpacks in Home Ec and explain what diatomic bonds are without getting confused.
Oh, yes—we’re good and those background singers know it. These two years, maturing from novice craftsmen to intermediate performers, were well worth the effort. After all, look where it’s gotten us.
You see, though, there’s more to it than the talent backing the instrument. There’s the passion and soul propelling not just the skill, but the need to play. What are those passions? In school, they are the pressures put on you by your parents, the desire to please your teachers and the fervent need to prove your grade-mates wrong by not giving in to peer pressure and, according to the commercial, staying “above the influence”. These blinding passions are what drove us to earn exceptional grades, retain friendships and do our best at all times, regardless of any pressures—they’re the things that will keep us going. Not just now, but forever. In a recording studio, on the road, or in the middle of making a new album, it’s those passions that keep us on track.
Moreover, it’s the aspiration to be rewarded. A’s and B’s are a compensation, just the same as selling a million copies of that new album is a prize. This desire for recognition, reward, and the simple need to put your hands on the fret-board and pluck is what we should all be thankful for right now. It’s what makes good musicians. It’s what makes outstanding students.
Ladies, gentlemen, graduates of 2011, as I stand before you, I have a single quote to impart. As Frank Zappa once said, “Music is the best.” Whether you disagree or not, I urge you to step onto that stage, look straight at the audience and play your heart out. Dance with our Fender Strat while you jam, for all it’s worth. To be clichéd, “whatever works”.
Graduates of 2011, they say life is like a party. If that’s true, we should all embrace our inner rock stars.
Can you guys believe that this baby lost to a speech about being depressed at school, being a turtle (see http://www.graduationwisdom.com/quotes/ for opening lines), etc—which not only a ton of parents, but classmates thought was pretty mundane and boring? Fairly unoriginal? Perhaps even a bit 'poseur-ish'?
On the other hand, a totally awesome friend of mine who has a shirt with 'Faggedabout It—Brooklyn, NY' on the front (here's looking at you, Senor Park Slope) won, too. His had a kick-a*s Americana theme and was written wonderfully.
For the record, the way I see it—I did win. I was spared the adolescent trauma of reading 2 pages worth of words in front of my grade-mates and their extended families, wasn't I?
